


Somewhere in the Between

by ColtsAndQuills



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-28 18:42:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8458510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColtsAndQuills/pseuds/ColtsAndQuills
Summary: A place to collect my fandom ficlets and drabbles -- all the stuff that's never going to grow up but is content to play in the margins of my imagination.





	

"Uh oh."

You've had your share of screw ups on the job. Who hasn't? But this was waitressing. Wednesday's worst should amount to a fly in someone's soup of the day, not a dead man. But here you were, every eye in the diner popping, all jaws dropped, as your current customer violently dry heaved over his plate of the chef special.

"Dean? Dean! What's wrong?" Sam's hip jarred his iced tea as he jumped to his feet, sending it tumbling to the floor in an explosion of glass. The sound made you cringe. Everyone knew your boss could hear the destruction of her property from half a state away, and sure enough, seconds later, you spotted her making a fast line toward the table. You swore the grinding of her teeth echoed across the length of the room.

"Oh crap! Oh crap! Is he allergic to fish?" you cried out.

"Knew... specials ... always bad idea.... _nggch_! What ... kind of diner ... runs outta burgers ..." Dean wheezed, but any further complaint was choked off by an alarming heave of his chest. You skipped back a step, thinking a guy that size would make a mess that'd rival a back alley in a college town after finals.

"No, no, he's not allergic," Sam insisted, but he was hardly paying you any mind. He was too busy concerning himself with his brother, who had started turning blue at the lips. One of Dean's hands clutched at his throat, the dry heaves shrunken to shrill whistles of air.

By this point, several people had their cellphones out. You wondered if anyone had bothered to dial 9-1-1 or if they were too occupied with getting it all captured for social media.

Your boss had the same thought, not putting much faith in the paramedics arriving any time soon. Her manicured nails found purchase on your shoulder and shoved you closer to a steadily paling Dean.

"My Lord, what are you doing?! Give him the Heimlich!" she shrieked.

"Heimlich?" you sputtered. Memories of practice dummies in high school gymnasiums seemed from a lifetime ago.

"He's not choking!" Sam snarled. He gripped Dean's shoulders as his brother's eyes began to roll back.

"What did he eat?" your boss snapped at you.

"Just the special!" you replied, eyeing the remains of his half-eaten fish sandwich.

Several plates clattered across tables as those who had ordered the same shot out of their seats. If the paramedics weren't being called before, they sure were now, but no one in the room believed they'd be there in time for the one poor sucker. The strangled noises coming out of Dean were fading by the moment.

"There's nothing wrong with the fish!" Your boss raised her voice loud enough to make sure the entire establishment was definitely, in no way, shape or form, responsible for any corpses-to-be on her property. "I just had it shipped in this morning! It's been served all day!"

"This... this morning? I used the stuff in the back of the freezer..."

Your boss suddenly turned nearly as pale as Dean.

This time, when she spoke, she barely managed a whisper. "That was marked for recall." Then, louder. "I told you that had to be thrown away last week! How many people did you serve?!"

"He got the last of it!" The panic surrounding you was contagious. "I opened the new packages for everyone else! I didn't think--"

"Help!" Sam shouted. "Hey, help!!! Come on! He needs you!"

Pity sat thick and heavy in your throat. Most of the diner's crowd were regulars, people you could personally point out, and not one of them had PhD anywhere near their name.

"I'm so sor--" you began, but a stranger shoved you aside before you blubbered your apology.

You didn't recognize the guy, even though his trench coat, heavy for the day's weather, should have made him stand out from the rest of the diner's patrons.

"Cas, he's--" Sam's eyes rolled wildly from the newcomer and back to Dean.

Without a word, Castiel placed a hand on Dean's lolling head. He looked like one of those hack faith healers on obscure Sunday morning programming, the kind that grated on the nerves of anyone but the truly desperate. Judging by Sam's face, he fell in that category. Whatever this new guy was up to, Sam wasn't interfering. A lost cause, but the diner had gone deathly quiet in anticipation of the inevitable.

Then Dean gasped like a drowning man breaking to surface.

Around you, people cried out in shock. Somewhere in the back, a woman let out a whoop of praise. Dean looked around, bewildered.

"Jesus! I thought I was a dead man!" He swiped his forearm across his lips, which were already regaining a ripe flush.

"You almost were," Castiel replied. He was smiling, in that barely there way that he always did, while Sam sank into his chair with a curse and loud exhalation of relief.

Not missing a beat of the miraculous healing, your boss swooped into their circle, eager to beg some saintly forgiveness for the near catastrophe. Others had begun to crowd the table, too, curious about the rescue, the conversation, and perhaps the gossip of whatever lawsuit must be on the horizon for their favorite eatery.

Mind spinning, you backed away from the pressing bodies and accusing stares. You tried to find focus in the click of your heels on the lacquered floor, used them to counter the pounding rhythm of your heart as you headed into the kitchen. It was deserted, the other employees just as curious as the rest.

When the heavy door swung shut behind you, you didn't so much as lean against the counter as you collapsed into it, a hand pressed to your mouth.

That guy -- that Dean -- had almost died.

You had almost killed him.

The implications made your mind reel and anxiety set in.

"Oh, God," you murmured.

"I wouldn't count on _him_ helping you." The voice came from your side, making you jump.

As usual, he was smiling. He always smiled. He did nearly ten years ago, and he did now.

Wheeling to face him, you raised your palms defensively. "Give me another try! You saw how close I was, right?"

In your heels, you were nearly his height, and yet he somehow made you feel small, frail, when he locked eyes with yours.

"In my business, darling, the third time -- or second, for that matter -- isn't the charm. It's a colt up your ass and an irate pigeon trying to lay you flat. And I don't mean in the fun way."

Your mouth worked, but no sound came out. All the air felt as if it had been pulled from the room. A tiny part of your mind wondered if this was how Dean felt after you poisoned his food with the strange powder Crowley had given you two nights previous.

"So... so what now?" You already knew the answer, but his lips quirked jovially, taking pleasure in rubbing in the fact that the night wasn't a complete loss. Not to him, anyway.

"Now, since you haven't helped rid me of a nuisance, as we agreed upon two nights ago, I've no choice but to move forward with our original contract. You have... what is it? Five weeks left?"

"Six..."

"Well, let's call it five, seeing as you've wasted my time."

Despite the way your stomach roiled, you managed to spit two words at him. He grinned a little wider and wagged a finger at you.

"Tsk tsk. Is that any way to speak to your future employer?"

"If you give me one more chance, I swear this time I'll..."

"Such an overachiever. Don't worry. You'll have plenty of opportunities to try to kill the Winchesters and their pet angel soon as you join the eager rank and file of the damned. I'll see you soon, dear."

And with that, you once more found yourself alone. But for the first time that night, you felt calm.

_... an angel, huh?_

You supposed it made sense, given the existence of demons and all. And if anyone could save a soul, well...

Peering through the glass of the door's safety window, you saw the trio beginning to make their exit, a scowling Sam pulling what appeared to be your boss's offer of a free pecan pie out of Dean's reach.

The odds of this working were slim, you thought, as you untied your apron and let it fall to the floor. They'd probably hate you. Maybe even kill you. But as you stepped out into the parking lot, waiting in the rusty halo of a sodium light, you felt a prick of hope. A good kind, too -- not like the bargain salvation Crowley offered, saturated with the sour bile of dark promises and murderous intent.

Maybe these three would turn out to be the real deal, the kind of life-savers you needed all those years ago.

And if not...

What did you have to lose?

 


End file.
